Damien Galeone

About 10 years ago, I suddenly realized that I was shaped like a couch cushion. I drank too much beer and had the diet of a fourteen-year-old who’d been allowed to choose his own daily menu. I ate frozen things from boxes. My blood must have been 40% hotdog and 20% fish stick.  

I decided to make a change. I started working out, cut out bread and elevators, drank beer only once a week, and embraced ideals like disciple, hunger, and misery. I set Saturday as Cheat Day. The idea was that I could eat what I wanted on Cheat Day if I was good all week. Anyway, it worked and I lost a lot of weight. And for a long while I could see my toes from my face with no mirror middleman. Sitting down in tight pants didn’t take the planning and organization of D-Day. Life was good.

After a few years, like democracy in America, I backslid. Stressful day? Pizza. Thursday before a long weekend? Celebrate with mashed potatoes tonight. Buttery mashed potatoes. Don’t feel like cooking? Have a sandwich. One? No, how about two? Awesome. I had long grown out of my drink-when-stressed days and had settled comfortably into a carbohydrate coping system. Slowly Cheat Day became just Day. Anyway, it worked and I gained back a bunch of weight.

This became apparent a few weeks ago when I passed out while trying to button some pants I hadn’t worn in a while. This was coupled with other signs. In an attempt to help my dog get a little exercise, I make her jump up on the couch and chair for piskoty to add a wee physical challenge. I’d hole a piskoty above the couch and she’d jump up, then the same on one chair and then the other. After a day, she got the pattern and I felt as chuffed and arrogant as a suited fellow in Westminster running through an obstacle course.

The next day, I spotted the slice of pizza Burke had hidden for me atop the kitchen cabinets. I climbed up there and got it, feeling proud in my ability to beat the scavenger hunt. An hour later, locating and grabbing the Snicker’s bar taped to the ceiling light fixture, I called to her across the flat that she was making it too easy. Later that night, doing a jab-uppercut duo on a punching bag in order to win some French fries that Burke had set up for me, it all became clear.

As I munched those fries (I had won), it occurred to me that it was time to get back to my healthy lifestyle. We decided on a reversal of policy. The return to the days of yore, when Cheat Day was Saturday and every other day was void of bread, carbs, sugar, and happiness. I had done it before; I could do it again.

Friday. Cheat Day -1. I have to buy pants for the university ball. Pants. The chubby man’s kryptonite. Rubbing insult to injury like salt into an open wound on my eyeball, everyone at the mall seems to be enjoying bread. Not just enjoying bread, it’s as if they are in a commercial for bread and they’ve been ordered to enjoy to eat it in a near-sexual manner. Rolls, chlebíčky, croissants, rolls with hotdogs baked into them. I feel like I’m in hell’s ironic punishments department. Their joy exacerbates my misery. I keep my eye on the ball. For Saturday is Cheat Day and I will make it to Cheat Day and then I will cheat. I will be a Republican pastor and fatty foods will be my Filipino pool boy.  

After buying pants, I stock up for Cheat Day. I buy cereal and chips and hotdogs. I bristle at the guy eating a burger so nonchalantly, like it was a Saturday! Fool. I run home with my food and my pants before I can make a mistake with either. I spend the rest of the day working and then reading a horror novel. It’s not about bread, but it might as well be. I am not reading the words. A demonic and delicious hoagie roll torture an innocent man who just wants to lose a few pounds. When sleep comes, I let her take me.

Saturday comes. Not until the Christmas I asked Santa for Heather Locklear have I sprinted from my bed and charged to the living area with more excitement. I have two bowls of cereal and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for breakfast. I spend the remainder of the morning warding off stomach pains and flulike sweats. When I can waddle off the couch, I make Burke and I omelettes with roasted potatoes and bacon (I make her recite the 50 states before giving her breakfast, because what cometh around goeth around). When the nausea subsides a few hours later, I have some chips and prepare for a Fourth of July style dinner.

Am I uncomfortable? Yes. Tums and Alza Selzer are pulled out of the closet. I thumb my nose at discomfort with a chocolate pudding. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we return to a strict, sensible diet of greens and lean protein.    

Later that evening, as I lie on the couch in a state of bloat so bad that I expect some kids to video themselves pushing me back into the ocean, I am uncomfortable and happy. Uncomfortable because in the last 10 hours I have ingested the daily recommended caloric intake for Bolivia. Happy because this is what Cheat Day used to be about. You ignore, ward off, and straight up deny temptation throughout the week. You even refuse the seemingly inconsequential things: a hotdog, a piece of toast, a family style bucket of KFC. Then, since it’s my first real Cheat Day in a while, I overdid it. I know that I have one day, not six. And I am paying the price.

But if it means I don’t have to find Carmen Sandiego for my next candy bar, I’ll do it.